011
by Cirocco
Summary: Response to 'When Good People Go Bad' Challenge


This was in response to the "When Good People Go Bad" challenge on Thursday 100 Plus, on livejournal.

And yes, I'm aware that the protagonist is somewhat ambiguous.  Take a guess ;)

**ooo000ooo**

.11

Blood Alcohol Content of .11.

That's 6 drinks, consumed over 2 hours.

That's one scotch, two scotch, three scotch.  One vodka, two vodka, three vodka.

One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish, he thinks idly, leaning back on the hard stone wall.  He used to read that to his daughter, so long ago.

He knows the statistics.  _In 1995, impaired drivers caused 7,860 crashes and 450 deaths in __New York__State__, and over 17,000 deaths nationwide._

_One third of the fatalities in __New York__State__ involve impaired or intoxicated drivers and pedestrians._

_A driver with a BAC of 0.08 is four times as likely to cause a crash as a driver who has not been drinking, while a driver with a BAC of 0.16 is 25 times as likely to do so._

He knows because he did some research when he heard that the driver who killed Claire Kincaid had blown a BAC of .15.  And was going to get 12 months at Mount McGregor, a slap on the wrist, a walk in the park.  For killing a young woman who had a future and friends and intelligence and wit and a man who didn't really realize he loved her until she was gone.

_Why don't I take you home?_

_I don't believe there is any law against taking a cab while intoxicated._

That night ended in death and regret.  But that night at least it wasn't his fault, not really.  He felt guilty, but Claire's death wasn't his fault.  He'd gotten drunk, a stupid thing to do.  He'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time.  He'd been feeling anger and regret and had drowned it in alcohol, and what happened after that was not his fault but the fault of a man who spent 12 months at Mount McGregor.

The bench is hard, and it's kind of dark in here.  His companions are a guy who beat up his wife and another who held up a convenience store.

For a man who's spent most of his life on the right side of the law, he's sure spent more time than most would imagine in these holding cells.  But every other time he's been in here, it's been kind of a joke.

_Heard you were in lock-up?_

_Heh__.__  Yeah, you know, protests.  They had about fifty of us in there._

(Let's not mention the fact that he hadn't actually been protesting at the time – he'd been drunk off his ass and had wandered into the protest because it looked like fun.)

Protesting.  Being a little intoxicated while young and stupid.  The kind of thing you could get arrested for and still end up holding down a decent job, still count yourself one of the good guys.

Not this time.

He wonders what his penalty will be.  His career is over, that's a given, but he wonders just how much jail time he'll get.

Does it matter?

No, it doesn't.

So many things don't matter at this point.

When you're in a place like this, he realizes, very little matters.

Doesn't matter whether you had scotch, or vodka, or gin.

Doesn't matter whether you'd admitted your alcoholism to the world or only to yourself and your fellow "Hello My Name Is Bill/Julie/Chuck And I'm an Alcoholic" buddies.

Doesn't matter how long you'd stayed away from the stuff.

Doesn't matter whether you'd started drinking again on the sly, ashamed to show it to people who thought you were on the straight and narrow, or publicly, relieved that you'd never admitted your problem to anybody but yourself and AA.

Doesn't matter whether you were able to convince yourself that you were still OK because your drinking didn't interfere with The Job or The Family like it had before.  Not that there was a family to be interfered with anyway, not any more.

Doesn't matter if you're a career criminal, or a cop, or a lawyer, or even the District Attorney or Chief of Police.

Doesn't matter whether you were driving a small car or big car or motorcycle or truck.

Doesn't matter how the hell you'd managed to convince yourself that you were still OK to drive, when you so obviously weren't.  Doesn't matter whether you'd told yourself, "I feel fine", or "It's so late nobody will be out anyway," or "I'll go really slowly, just in case".

All that matters is the screech of your brakes.  And the thud of a body.

And the BAC .11.


End file.
